Tonight I was rifling through old pictures. Yes. Can we all say SCARY! on the count of three?

Scary.

Scary.

Scary.

My darling sister is obsessed with taking pictures. Before the glories of digital camera's were introduced to our family, the child would literally go through rolls of film a week. Guess who was her willing model?

Vain little me.

Ah. This has come back to bite me in the proverbial butt as I see the boxes and boxes of pictures we have of me posing. In the trees. In the dirt. On the tractor. Flying like an angel. Making demon faces. Eating. Sleeping. Staring.

Somewhere along the line, I understood prehaps it wasn't so fabulous to constantly have your pictures taken. So the visual trail thins a bit, but is still there. As I was flicking through these pictures, I was cringing. Not necessarily over the annoying fake smiles, or the bad outfits, or the doubles chins, but mostly the bad hair. WHAT IN THE NAME OF PORK WERE MY SISTERS THINKING?

Ok. So they were trying to give me a little artistic license. But that should have been revoked, just like the Nudist Colony's artistic license was revoked. Both equally hidious.

Whenever I had long hair IT WAS THE SAME FREAKING STYLE. Over the past, say, six years. And then I would go extreme and chop it off in a awful bob. AND THE COLOR! I had odd red, streaky blonde and horrible brunette. And of course we cannot forget the ghastly pink.

Some of the outfits were bad, but the hair distracted from them, by far. I did, also stumble across a few pictures that were of MONUMENTAL embarassment to me for years. Now, I can actually laugh. Sort of. But I still wonder what actually possesed me to ALLOW them to take a picture of me, from the ground, in Daisy Duke shorts with platform shoes.


I can learn from the follies of youth. Or wish that my legs were still that thin.